Nabokov, instigator of irony, agent of alliteration. My sin, my soul. Na-bo-kov: The tip of the tongue touching, timidly, the teeth and resting as two rapid rushes of air adds, softly, their respective syllables. Na. Bo. Kov. He was Владимир, plain Владимир, in aristocratic Saint Petersburg. He was Sirin in Berlin. He was Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov on the dotted Line. But in my hands he was always Nabokov.